Acquainted With the Night
by chezchuckles
Summary: Co-authored story by Topsy and chezchuckles. While Beckett has been struggling with PTSD, with becoming more, Castle has been struggling as well.
1. Chapter 1

**Acquainted With the Night**

****by **Topsy **and **chezchuckles**

* * *

><p>I have been one acquainted with the night.<br>I have walked out in rain - and back in rain.  
>I have outwalked the furthest city light.<br>I have looked down the saddest city lane.  
>I have passed by the watchman on his beat<br>And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

-Acquainted With the Night, by Robert Frost

* * *

><p>Beckett hates being the last of her team to arrive at the 12th on a Monday morning. But the sleeping pill she took on Saturday made her absolutely worthless, and so she had to talk to Dr. Burke about it at his open session (he has Monday morning at seven cleared for her, right after her run, if she needs the extra time), and he came to the same conclusion: no more pills.<p>

They don't work for her. She has dreamless comas, not dreamless sleep. She functions like a zombie the next day and she finds that her heart beats arrhythmically. The caffeine she ingests maybe doesn't help.

The psychiatrist Burke sent her to barely listened to her symptoms before writing out a hasty prescription. Beckett wasn't going to him, regardless of what her therapist might have said this morning. But getting it decided, and over with, that was good. It was a step in the right direction, towards being _more_.

So she's late to work, and her hair is back in a bun because it's still wet from her quick shower. She runs up the last flight of stairs (she's antsy after a session, needing a physical outlet for the things spinning in her head), clears the top step just as she sees Castle disappearing into the break room.

A little breathless, she realizes he was on the phone, that look of pained and forced cheerfulness on his face that she knows too well.

From a hospital room this past spring.

No. No, she's not going there today. She can't afford it. Not after that session.

Still, as she's about to pass the break room, she slows down, ears attuned to his voice. Listening.

"No, sweetie, it's fine. When Meredith wants to see you, it's best to go." He gives that strained laugh that fools no one, least of all Kate. Probably not Alexis either.

Beckett stops just out of sight, hovering. Yes, she's eavesdropping. But she needs coffee, and she can just waltz on in when he's done and have Castle make it for her. His coffees are always the best.

She's only waiting for that.

"You're right; you're right about your mom. Get on the plane, pumpkin. No. I can hear them calling your flight. Go."

A long pause.

"Love you too, Alexis."

Beckett waits just a beat, long enough to wipe the interest off her face, and rounds the doorway into the break room.

"Morning, Castle. Coffee?" she asks, giving him a pressed-lip smile and a raised eyebrow, glancing hopefully at the espresso maker.

It takes him a moment to look at her. "Ah. Yeah." He moves as if waking from a dream - moves like she did Saturday after that sleeping pill - and heads for the machine with a blank look in his eyes.

She hesitates, opens her mouth to say something-

"Oh. I already made you one," he half-laughs, then shrugs at her. It's not a real smile on his face; it's more of that strained and lifeless thing he had on his face earlier, talking to his daughter, but he's already pushing past her out of the break room.

Into the bull pen.

So Kate follows.

* * *

><p>Her vest is too tight, pulling and tugging at the scar on her ribs. She wants to rub at it, slip her fingers underneath the Kevlar and dig until it doesn't hurt anymore. But she can't—her hands are full of steel and polymer, cupped in a grip around her weapon. The boys flank her, their own guns drawn, and she can feel Castle at her back—a ghostly presence; she doesn't have to hear him or see him to know he's there.<p>

They sweep the alley, looking for the suspect who took off at a run when he saw them coming. They have him cornered—he's in there somewhere.

She's not nervous, not anymore. Her grip is firm, her palms are dry and tight around the gun. But the adrenaline is pumping through her veins, a drug coursing through her, licking at her heart and lungs.

There's thrill here, in the chase, and she knows she's addicted to it, that this is part of what she comes back for-

Suddenly there's a crash from the end of the alley, and their suspect comes tumbling out, rolling across the oily bricks. His face dips into a puddle of a not-so-clear liquid and he comes up sputtering. They advance on him quickly, surrounding him.

"Put your hands up, dirt bag!" Ryan shouts. Kate's lips twitch—he gets so into this sometimes.

The guy gets onto his knees, palms raised in the air and fear rolling off of him in waves. He's killed a man – a friend – over money. And he knows he's done. Over.

Esposito lowers his weapon, grabs his handcuffs, and walks behind the man. He yanks his wrists down, cuffs the guy, and then jerks him to his feet, already reading his Miranda rights.

Kate sighs, a release. The surge flowing through her blood begins to quiet, a murmur, and she turns to check on Castle. He smiles, but his lips are tight, his eyebrows tense. She frowns slightly, but looks back to the boys and watches as they lead their suspect to the mouth of the alley. She follows, motioning for Castle to join her.

He steps up beside her. "That was almost too easy," he remarks.

She tips her head, agrees. "It's a little less stressful when they don't have their own weapon aimed at us."

They step out of the alley, and Kate squints. The sun is bright and the winter air sharp. Their breaths blow out in clouds of steam. She's about to say something when a flash of sunlight reflects off a passing car window, and she finds herself suddenly slammed up against a brick wall, her partner's body heavy against hers. He's panting, his eyes squeezed shut tightly and his shoulders hunched—braced—for impact.

She glances over his shoulder and sees Ryan and Esposito paused and staring at them, their mouths dropped open.

"Castle," she murmurs, and realizes her hands are on his waist. She squeezes him, tries to push him back. "Castle," she says more firmly and shoves at him. "Get off of me."

He grunts at the force of her shove, and steps back, his eyes opening, wide and alarmed. He swallows hard, and then rubs a hand over his neck. "Uh. Sorry."

"What was that?" she says intently, stepping in close to him, her voice low so only he can hear. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the boys placing their guy into the back of the police cruiser that has pulled up on scene.

He won't look at her, refuses to meet her gaze. "Nothing. I just— It was just a mistake." He tries to smile, tries to brush it off, but she sees the panic still filtering through his blue eyes. "Flash of light just… caught me off guard. But it's not - it's ok." He turns the charm on, lets his smile take over his whole face. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

She shakes her head, at a loss for words. What is this?

"Okay, good. Sorry, Beckett. Didn't mean to rough you up. Anyway," he trails off, heads toward the police cruiser. Walks away.

She stares at him, watches him go, wonders what the hell that was all about. It's almost like… like the time she hit the ground during the sniper case - like a flashback. She frowns, and then shakes her head, shakes it off, and follows him to the car.

She can't deal with him right now.

She can barely deal with herself.

* * *

><p>She doesn't do twitter or the other social network things; she just doesn't have the time for it. Castle likes to talk entirely too much though, so she checks every once in awhile, just to be sure. After the whole Eligible Bachelor article came out, Kate felt the need to keep tabs on the media content about him, which might also possibly be about her.<p>

This is not an excuse, not something she's telling herself. At the beginning, she felt it was important to keep tabs on Castle's tendency to overshare. But honestly, for the last year or so, she's found little to plague her about his overly enthusiastic love for all things NYPD.

She checks now for some reason, a quiet Saturday night, in a hot bath with a glass of wine and a good book - not his - and her phone lying on the stand beside her tub. She's really just keeping herself from texting him and finding out what he's up to when she instead pulls up her bookmark of his twitter page.

Fifteen tweets in the space of six hours yesterday. The first at one in the morning, then 3:02, 3:18, 3:47. . .the last at five in the morning.

Troubled, she scrolls back through the timeline and sees a pattern of early morning tweets for the last few weeks. Not every night, certainly, and there are stretches of days where he apparently hasn't felt the need to tweet at three a.m. - hopefully this means he's getting some sleep.

He hasn't told her a thing about this, but it resonates in her - she knows it's not just Castle up late writing, not just the man being goofy because he doesn't have a real job. He *has* a real job, as her partner, and on some of these days, she knows for certain he was up at a crime scene with her as early as five or six o'clock.

According to his tweets, which won't load any earlier than September for some reason, he's been awake and at it on the days of some of their hardest, most exhausting cases: September 27th, October 13th, October 22nd, November 1st, December 6th. . .

Kate closes her eyes and tries to flip back through her memory, tries to recall with any photographic detail the way Castle might have looked during those cases: the day of the tiger and handcuffs, the morning of the double homicide in Central Park, the all-night surveillance tape viewing, the sniper.

But she can't recall. She doesn't specifically remember him, his face, his demeanor. What she remembers more from those times are the ways he tried to reach her, reach out to her, comfort her, the ways he was his usual, supportive self - her partner. She remembers him in connection with herself, and not anything at all about just him.

Nothing that is Castle alone. And how he might have been. Only herself. How is it that she can remember nothing of his own mood, his own state?

At that moment, a tweet comes in. Something about paper football and the Avengers, which makes no sense, but it's nearly midnight.

She gets out of the bath, keeping her phone close by, puts on pajamas, rinses out the wine glass and loads it in the dishwasher. The book lays abandoned in the bathroom; she keeps watching her phone for updates.

There's laundry, a cold case she took home last week, a couple bills to pay. Kate stays up entirely too late obsessively checking his twitter page, refreshing it on her phone. She falls asleep on her couch with another new tweet:

_Desperate for a new coffee shop. Know one open all hours that wouldn't mind a friendly, writerly insomniac?_

* * *

><p>When Castle walks into the precinct a few mornings later, Kate studies his face, once again noticing the bruised pigmentation under his eyes, the slight reddish tint to his sclera, the frown lines etched around his mouth. Ever since her twitter discovery, she's been watching him, looking for the signs of his insomnia. She's ashamed to admit that they are obvious, now that she's paying attention.<p>

She's a good detective—she knows this, but when it comes to her personal life, to the people around her, she's realizing more and more lately just how selfish she has become since her mother's murder. She's closed herself up in a dark room and locked the door, dead-bolted it, keeping everyone on the outside. Holed up in her own painful misery.

She wants to be _more_. She wants to release that deadbolt, open the door, let the light shine in. She wants to step out, and be a part of reality, of life.

And she's begun to suspect that the first step starts with him.

Castle walks to her desk, smiles weakly at her. "Morning, Beckett."

"Hey," she murmurs, and takes the coffee he holds out to her.

He slumps down in his chair, his shoulders hunched more than usual. She watches him as she takes that first delicious sip and waits.

But he doesn't speak, doesn't ask her what's new with the case, doesn't tell her how much he misses Alexis or ask for advice about Meredith. He just sits and stares with sightless eyes, his fingers limp around his own coffee cup.

She clears her throat. No response.

A frown crosses her face. "Castle."

"Huh?" He turns to look at her, as if noticing her for the first time.

"What're you daydreaming about?" she asks and smiles, trying to lighten the mood, trying to bring him out of the haze that seems to shroud him. This should be where he inserts some comment about his fantasies of her. Right?

"Oh." He shrugs. "Nothing. Just… spaced out there for a second."

He tries to return the smile, but she's not buying it. Not anymore.

"What's going on with you?"

"What?"

"You're not sleeping."

"I'm not?" He grins at her.

"You look exhausted, Castle. And… you've been posting on twitter at all hours of the night."

"Keeping tabs on me, Detective?" he teases with a wiggle of his eyebrows. "Very interesting," he drawls out in a weird, mad-scientist type of voice, his fingers waggling together around his coffee cup as if he's just made a great discovery.

But it's not funny. "Castle."

He stops, his eyes tracing over her face. His brows draw together, tight, like someone is stitching them together with invisible thread. "It's no big deal."

She purses her lips but doesn't speak.

He lets out a sigh when he realizes she's not going to let this one go, and he looks away, his fingers tracing random patterns on his cup. "Just some writer's block. I get on the internet to kill time, or pretend like I'm researching, or whatever. And I just usually end up on twitter." He glances back at her. "It's nothing."

He's lying.

It feels like a punch in the gut. She sucks in a breath, sits up a little straighter. Her scars ache.

She doesn't think he's ever lied to her before, not point-blank, not right to her face. He's better at evasion, at using dramatics to change the subject or point her in another direction. But a flat-out lie… hurts.

Kate pushes back from her desk, rolls out with her chair. She stands, leaving her coffee there, and walks away.

"Beckett."

Her lungs feel heavy, burdened, and she thinks she should turn around, sit back down. But she's not so sure she could find her poker face right now, doesn't think he would miss the hurt written between the lines. Usually she can push it down, hold it in, but now… it's taken her by surprise. The lie. The hurt.

"Kate!"

She doesn't stop, just heads for the break room, wishing she could think of a better place to go. Somewhere he wouldn't find her. The roof, maybe, or an empty stairwell. But he's at her back now, right behind her, following her into the break room.

She walks to the opposite side of the room, looks through the window into the hallway, her back to him. She folds her arms around herself, tries to hold herself together. Why should his honesty be so important? Why should his. . .weakness mean so much to her? She somehow needs him to need her, as she seems to need him.

"I'm sorry."

Her teeth clench. She doesn't turn.

"That was a lie."

She doesn't respond, just waits – trying with all her might to push it down, to lock it up and put it away so that when she turns to face him, he won't see any of it. She feels his gaze on her, like tiny pinpricks on the back of her neck, but she remains silent.

"You're right, I haven't been sleeping. I just—I can't sleep. When I lay down, most nights I just end up staring at the ceiling. It's like my brain is all scrambled, filled up with so much. Usually I could write it out, get it all down, but that's not working so well these days. The words aren't there anymore."

He sounds so bleak, so exhausted; it's that sound that has her turning around to face him.

"What's wrong?" she asks, her voice soft and low. Half-hating herself for being able to delve into *his* problems with him but not her own.

He shrugs, won't meet her gaze. "I don't know. Nothing. Everything."

She frowns—that's not an answer. "Castle, if you need someone to talk to you, you can…" She stops, hesitates. "You can talk to me."

He chuckles wryly and reaches up to rub a hand over the back of his neck. "That's not what you want."

Her cheeks heat up—not from anger or hurt this time, but from embarrassment. He's right. She isn't sure she can handle his issues on top of all of hers. She already feels weighted down, like she might sink into the dark depths of her own well of emotions.

"I've been—I've been seeing someone; a therapist. Maybe you can talk to him. I'll ask if he has any openings—"

"Kate."

She stops, stares at him. Her chest hurts, aches from this widening chasm that sits between them; a gaping black hole, threatening to suck them both down and never spit them back out.

He smiles; it's tremulous, wavering. "I'll be fine."

"Castle," she tries to argue, but her conviction is weak. She struggles to accept help herself; how can she force him to accept it?

"Really, Beckett, I'll be okay. It'll pass." Her weakness seems to bolster his strength. "Let's get back to work. You can fill me in on everything you've discovered since last night."

His smile widens, becomes real, and then he's turning, walking back into the bull pen, expecting her to follow.

She does, after a moment, but first she realizes two things.

One, he hasn't told her anything, hasn't revealed anything about why he's not sleeping.

Two, she's a coward.

* * *

><p>Beckett didn't sleep so well herself last night, but she wakes up after a few hours determined to figure this out. She doesn't have a plan yet, which is irritating, but she knows something will come to her. She can do this. All it takes is one little step. (Or so her therapist keeps telling her, right?)<p>

She's running late this morning because her mind wandered while she was in the shower, a waste of water and a waste of brain power; nothing came to her.

She takes the bike in to the 12th, tucks her helmet under her arm, rakes a hand through her hair to shake it out as she heads for the underground entrance. She's feeling good, despite not having a plan, because at least now she knows she's going to do this. Start paying attention; figure it out. Give some of herself to someone else.

Security check; she clears easily, badge on her hip. The uniformed guard knows her, gives her one of his tight-lipped, professional smiles. She can't remember his name; Castle would know. He probably knows the guard's whole life story.

Kate cocks her hip out as she waits on the elevator, checks her phone for messages. The financials were delivered, surveillance cameras struck out, Ryan has an idea. She smirks and pauses as the doors open, then heads into the bullpen.

Busy, active, soothing in its regular and everyday-ness. She saunters by in her heels, snags the hackey sack from Esposito's hand to interrupt their play.

"Ryan?" she says, gesturing with her phone as she gets to her desk.

"Yeah, okay, see I had this idea."

Kate pulls her bottom drawer out with the toe of her shoe - high-heeled boots today; she's stronger in these, taller. She feels a takedown coming this afternoon, a break in the case big enough to get their guy. Castle will say something just right to set them both off on a theory-building frenzy, and then it will all come together. She can feel it.

And after that? Who knows. Maybe they can go somewhere for dinner.

"What if the receipt isn't his? We've just been assuming. . ." Ryan starts, feeling out his idea as he goes.

Kate drops her helmet into her bottom drawer, stands just at her chair, ready to sink down into it, and darts her eyes to the elevator. Then to the precinct clock. Hm.

She sits down, back straight, and thumbs on her monitor. She adjusts her keyboard to log in, then realizes it's catching on something. A cup. Surprise flickers through her at the sight - her coffee.

Kate reaches for it hesitantly. It's still hot; she can feel it through the protective cardboard sleeve. So Castle is around here somewhere?

She shifts in her seat, slides her phone out. Nothing from him - no _Where are you? I've been here for ages_ whiny text, no voicemail. She sips at her coffee, closes her eyes against the drone of Ryan's voice as he hesitatingly goes through his idea. Kate savors the taste, the flavor, the way it warms her whole body.

Castle.

Where is he?

* * *

><p>There's a cursory reply to her text: <em>Brought you coffee. Have stuff to do outside the city. See you later.<em>

It doesn't relieve her worry. She sees again the tense and hunted look on his face when he flattened her against the brick building, sees again the puffy cheeks, bruised eyes of his sleeplessness. He's worn more suit jackets lately, hiding the thickness of his shoulders and neck, his waist probably as well. Not sleeping, having flashbacks, some weight gain, eating irregularly - she can't remember the last time Castle actually finished a meal with them. Maybe after the bank and even then it was more wine than a full plate.

How much wine? How much scotch? That's an entirely different road; one she hasn't thought of. Would Castle - she has to believe he would know better. Has to.

She nurses that one coffee all day. His coffee.

When nothing in their case shakes loose, Beckett calls it a night and sends everyone home. She sits in the relative dimness of the empty bullpen and stares down the murder board. Filled up, lots of photos, timeline established, but most everyone in the clear, alibied out.

If Castle were here, there would be something. Maybe only a warm presence at her side, shoulder to shoulder, but that's better than nothing.

She can't resist any longer, pulls out her phone to call him. He hasn't texted her since that first one this morning; she won't admit to herself anything other than concern.

She does not need to hear his voice. She just wants to check on him.

But he doesn't answer.

When has he ever not answered her?

* * *

><p>The next day, they finally catch a break in their case, even without Castle's help. The suspect is in a holding cell, they got their confession, and Gates has ordered them all to go home and get some rest. There was some underlying glee to her voice as she barked out the command, and Kate has a feeling it's because Castle's done a disappearing act. Gates hadn't asked where he was—probably hoped if she didn't ask, he would stay gone—but the boys did.<p>

Kate didn't have an answer for them; still doesn't.

She hasn't called him since he didn't answer her last night, but she sent a couple of quick texts today, updating him on the case, letting him know they got the guy. But all she's gotten in return is radio silence.

She's worried, and more than a little pissed, and as she presses the button for the elevator in her building, she decides she's going to do something about it.

When she reaches her apartment, she unlocks the door and then steps inside, carefully locking back up. She dumps all of her stuff on the island in the kitchen, not even bothering to stop and pick up her keys when they slide to the floor in a noisy heap. She's determined, and she wants answers. Now.

She stalks into the living room, snagging her phone out of her pocket. She's never called Martha directly before, but she has her number 'in case of emergencies' (along with Alexis's.) She won't call Alexis—doesn't want to freak her out since she's in California and can't do anything about it—but she thinks Martha can handle her questions, her concern.

Kate paces the room as she presses the phone to her ear, wondering if Martha will answer. She likes the older woman, respects her, but doesn't know how diligent she is about her cell phone. Whereas Castle almost always answers his cell, and she always has hers an arms-length away, she's found that not everyone has the habit of being connected to their phone at all hours of the day. She hopes this time is an exception.

A sigh of relief escapes her lips when she hears Martha's cheerful voice on the other end.

"Kate, darling, it's so nice to hear from you! I trust everything is okay?"

Her heels catch on the rug, but she barely notices as she walks the floor like a caged lioness. "Oh, yes, Martha. Everything's fine."

"Oh, good, good. So, what's the word, kiddo?"

"Well, actually, I was wondering if you know where Castle is. He sort of did a vanishing act on me and I'm starting to get worried." She nibbles on her lower lip for a moment, and then adds—"He doesn't usually disappear in the middle of a case."

"He left in the middle of a case? That's odd. Richard doesn't usually like to leave a mystery unsolved."

"No, he doesn't." Kate replies, growing frustrated at Martha's roundabout way of answering. She doesn't sound concerned with the fact that Castle is gone, so it means she knows. "Do you know where he is?"

"Oh, darling, he decided to go to the Hamptons. Alexis is out of town, visiting her mother, and I've been busy with the acting school, and well—a new suitor who I've been spending a lot of evenings with. He said something about writing. He didn't mention this to you?"

"He's been saying that a lot lately," Kate mumbles to herself. Writing. Right. "And no, he didn't mention it to me. Doesn't he have cell service out there?"

"Well, yes, darling, of course. We spoke earlier this evening."

Hurt slips and slides through her chest cavity and settles in her stomach; a cauldron of bubbling disappointment. "Okay, Martha, thanks."

"Kate?"

"Hmm?"

"You might be right to be worried." She pauses, as if debating the wisdom of her words. And then, in true Martha fashion, she barrels on. "Frankly, he's worried me lately, too."

"Why?" Kate whispers, afraid of the answer.

"He hasn't been the same since…" This time Martha's pause is awkward, and she backpedals. "For awhile now."

_Since you were shot._ The words go unspoken, but Kate hears them as clearly as if they'd slipped past Martha's lips.

Her heart thumps hard in her chest, and she rubs her hand over the round scar between her breasts, tries to soothe the ache. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, darling, you have nothing to be sorry about. But I will tell you this—and if Richard ever asks, I will deny it until my last breath—I think you are the perfect one to fix this."

Kate startles. "What?"

"I know that you've had a lot to deal with lately, and I know you're hurting. But so is Richard. And I think that maybe you could help each other."

Kate's throat dries up as panic slithers down her spine. "Martha—"

"Sometimes it's easier to heal when you have someone to help you through it, someone who knows." Martha stops and clears her throat. "Richard said he would probably be in the Hamptons for the rest of the week. He was planning to come home the night before Alexis so he would be there when she returns."

"Thank you, Martha." Kate's voice is low, but the words feel like sandpaper against her vocal chords. "Can you send me the address?"

"No problem, kiddo. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

"You too."

"Au revoir."

When the click sounds in her ear, Kate lowers the phone slowly to her side, and stares unseeing into the empty spaces of her apartment. She drops onto the edge of her couch and leans forward, elbows on her knees, and buries her face in her hands.

Her insides are a gnarled mess, and she wants it all to go away.

She's been getting better—she has. She's been lighter lately, a little happier. She's been working on it, doing everything she can to haul herself out of the rubble of her bullet-scarred heart and start rebuilding. She's felt hope and had dreams, hazy images of a future that's once again possible.

Now it's shifting under her feet, sucking her down like quicksand. She needs to hole up for awhile and figure this out, battle it back.

But that's not fair, is it?

There's no life to be had if you're climbing up and your partner is sliding down.


	2. Chapter 2

**Acquainted With the Night**

by** Topsy **and **chezchuckles**

* * *

><p>I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet<br>When far away an interrupted cry  
>Came over houses from another street,<p>

But not to call me back or say good-bye;  
>And further still at an unearthly height,<br>O luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.  
>I have been one acquainted with the night.<p>

-Acquainted With the Night, by Robert Frost

* * *

><p>Beckett can't take the Crown Vic to his place in the Hamptons, not when she's got to call in every single movement to Gates. Damn. It's the bike then. All the way there as night falls. Bordering on dangerous, but she has good control of it, and she's got to do this. She has no other choice.<p>

If she sleeps on it, she knows she'll take the coward's way out.

Martha texted her the address; she's got no excuse now.

So Kate pulls her hair back at her neck, puts the helmet on, and straddles the Harley. Her heart is pounding like it's her first ride, but she throttles the engine and lets the rumble of the bike vibrate through her, easing her tension.

She takes 278 to 495; thankfully Castle's place is in Westhamptons, which is the closest strip of beach to the city. She narrowly avoids a careless car in the passing lane, winds around a long-haul trucker, and then cruises into a neutral space, free of the heaviest traffic.

She's going a little fast, but she needs to get there, eat up the miles. On a good day, the drive is anywhere from two to three hours, depending, but she has this sense that every hour wasted is a strike against her.

It's cold, freezing; the scarf around her neck, the leather jacket aren't enough. Her ears are starting to burn even with the helmet over them. Her fingers are frozen to the handlebars, her knees ache. The wind flays her alive.

When she finally exits the interstate, it's a straight shot to the beach; twilight has collapsed into miserable darkness, especially since it's off-season and most homes are empty and lightless. Beckett keeps a close eye on the road to keep from getting surprised by hidden obstacles, finds herself blazing past ritzier and more formal homes as she goes.

At the dead-end of the road is Richard Castle's Hamptons summer home.

Gates are closed. Of course. But Martha sent her the code just in case and all she has to do is lift the brushed nickel panel at the decorative sentry station and punch in the numbers, shamingly, 41319.

She presses enter and hears the whine of gears starting up, then the wheeze of a cold engine, even over the rumble of her Harley. When the gate swings open just wide enough, Kate drives through it; Martha said it would close behind her.

She doesn't want to lose the element of surprise, but the gate was louder than she expected. And she's not sure now where to find him.

She parks the bike in the wide, sweeping driveway, takes her helmet off with stiff fingers. Her bones are brittle with cold.

The wind is brisk even at the front of the house and Beckett starts circling around, looking for a way in that wouldn't require ringing the bell and giving herself away. She needs to surprise him - not a good surprise at that, just a way to keep him off balance in hopes of discovering the truth.

He didn't tell her he was doing this. He just left. In the middle of a case.

He left her.

She needs to stop thinking in terms of herself, stop letting that thought rattle around in her head and thrash in her guts. This isn't about her; this is about Castle. About how he's not okay.

His backyard, such as it is, isn't fenced off. She finds the wide and sparkling pool, blue light and moon reflecting into her eyes. Lounge chairs are folded up and winterized, the cushions gone. Probably in the storage unit made to look natural and appealing just to the back of the pool's tiled edge.

If the pool is anything to go by, his place is breath-taking. She wants to prowl through his rooms, snoop through the drawers, touch all the art.

But first Castle. She glances through the sliding glass doors, but it's dark inside; she can't even see what room the doors lead to. Beckett checks the handle and is surprised to see that the sliding glass hasn't been pulled shut all the way. Which means that Castle isn't inside, but somewhere out here.

She wanders to the right, further around the house, finds a boardwalk that leads straight to the beach - past grass and dunes to the water. Beckett follows the line of sight to the ocean's horizon, spots the lone figure at the edge, hands in the pockets of his jeans, arms pulled tight to his sides.

Her breath catches and she lays the helmet down to the wooden bench circling the back deck. She hunches her shoulders and buries her chin in her scarf, shivering as the wind picks up. She can see Castle's hair ruffle, his own shoulders up at his ears.

He's standing in moonlight, perilously close to that frigid water; he seems to be staring at his feet, not even out to the brilliant waves. He's not looking for inspiration; he's looking for oblivion.

Beckett presses the heel of her hand to her chest, tries to steel herself for the coming fight.

He left her. In the middle of a case. She's got to get through to him.

* * *

><p>When she gets close enough that she thinks he can hear her over the crash of the waves and the roar of the wind, she calls out his name.<p>

His head snaps back and he jerks around to face her, losing his footing and stumbling back. His arms wheel out, try to snag his balance, but he doesn't manage it, and drops like a stone to the sand. She hears him grunt with the force of it, even over the noise the beach at night.

"Castle," she gasps as she hurries towards him, dropping to her knees next to him. "Are you okay?"

At that moment, a particularly large wave breaks only a foot away, and the salty water races up over Castle's legs and into her lap.

This time they both gasp.

"Oooh, cold!" Castle yelps, and then struggles to push to his feet, bumping her in the process. She stumbles back, catches herself in wet sand. The awkward move makes her bones ache, as cold as they were from the wind and now the water. Her teeth start chattering, and then suddenly she's being lifted up by her elbows, propped on her feet.

"God, Beckett, are you trying to kill me? You scared the shit out of me."

"Sorry," she chatters, and brushes at her hands, gritty from the sand.

Her shivering seems to resonate through her bones and into his hands as they grip her elbows; he starts to shake right along with her.

When she looks up to his face, she feels the breath leave her. There, dancing in his eyes and along his curved lips is his _laughter_. And God, she's missed it. She can't help the corresponding tilt to her own lips, and then they are both laughing, shaking with merriment instead of the elements.

"That was like a cartoon—like something straight out of _Tom and Jerry_!"

And then the tide comes in stronger, a wave falling apart at their feet as she and Castle have the sand sucked out from under them. His arms flail, and his body teeters even as she reaches for him, grabs his arms so he doesn't go down again.

"Castle!"

But she's laughing, and it feels so good, feels right again even in the cold. The fight has left her. She knows once they go inside, once they're warm and dry, they'll have to talk. And they will. And some of it might hurt. But for now she's thrilled to see the light back in his eyes, the _real_ Castle she's been missing.

One of his hands wraps around her upper arm, pulling her forward, back up the beach and away from the water's edge. "C'mon, let's go inside. I need coffee, like two minutes ago."

"Don't be a wuss, Castle. This is nothing compared to being locked in a freezer."

The memory must make him shudder, but he's nodding and rubbing his hands up and down his arms. "True. Very, very true."

When they reach the back deck, Kate grabs her helmet and straightens, intending to follow him into the house. But he's stopped, turned to stare at her, and she hunches her shoulders under his scrutiny.

"What?"

"You rode your motorcycle?"

"Um, yeah. Why?"

"Are you insane? It's freezing! I'm surprised you're not frozen solid by now - between that and the water. Come on, come on, get in the house."

He ushers her inside, pushes her really, but then she's jerked to a stop because he's flicked a light on somewhere and she's assaulted with gleaming oak floors, white walls, and tall, pointed ceilings with rafters in a maze of geometric shapes. The ceiling itself is a work of art.

The couches are huge, and look like giant clouds that you could sink into. And now that she sees them, she plans to, as soon as possible, as soon as she's warm again. The space is incredible, even with the oversized furniture and huge paintings on the walls. The windows are plentiful, and she can tell the light would be amazing during the day. The view, as well.

The living room here is bigger than her whole apartment.

Castle moves around her, headed to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee presumably, but she's not following, rooted to the spot, her eyes roving over every angle and line of the place.

"You coming?" he asks, tossing the words over his shoulder as he heads away from her.

She nods mutely, and follows him, even though her jeans are practically soaked through, nearly trotting to catch up with him and see the rest of his place.

The kitchen is beautiful, all granite countertops and brushed nickel appliances and delicately carved cabinets in a beautiful oak that matches the floors. She wants to live here—just in these two rooms she's seen, and it suddenly reminds her of that day in the precinct as Castle walked away with his ex-wife. Her stomach flips, but she pushes the memories, the nerves, away and focuses on the design (and not her plan), on the this gorgeous house the man in standing in.

"Castle, this house… it's… How much did this place cost you?"

He grins at her, pleased. "You don't want to know," he says with an arch of his eyebrow.

She nods. He's right. She just wants to appreciate it.

"It's beautiful."

"You like it?" he asks as he starts the coffee, and then turns back to her.

"Yeah." She does *not* sound breathless; it's just the cold.

He smiles and she's once again reminded of why she came. Because she's missed _this_ smile, _this_ face he's showing to her now. And she wonders if maybe he's better already, if just coming out here is some sort of therapy for him, if getting away for a couple of days was all he needed, change of venue.

But then, under her careful study, she sees the shadows come creeping back over his face, and he's clearing his throat, and shifting on his feet, and not looking at her anymore.

Her heart sinks, an anchor to the ocean floor.

"Let's get some dry clothes - your jeans are soaked. I'll look and see if Alexis has anything here, but I bet it's mostly swimsuits and shorts, so maybe I'll find you something of mine. Sweatshirt or something."

He's rambling, and it causes nerves to start churning in her belly. "Whatever you've got is fine, Castle."

He nods, and then he's slipping past her, heading for the stairs, and she follows him because she doesn't know where else to go.

* * *

><p>Once they're settled, each of them dressed in one Castle's sweatshirts and pajama pants, their hands wrapped around warm coffee mugs, they stop to stare at each other as they stand awkwardly in the kitchen.<p>

His clothes are much too big for her, but they're comfortable and warm - though not warm enough - and her feet are on bare tile. And this isn't where she wants to do this - standing across from each other in his kitchen like they're about to have a duel. She doesn't want to start this off like a battle, even though it's bound to get there.

"This is great, Castle," she murmurs and lifts her mug towards him. "But I'm _dying_ to sink into one of those couches in the living room." She's trying to be light, trying to make a joke, but then she realizes what she's said when she sees the shutters come down over his eyes.

He clears his throat and nods, indicating she move into the living room. "They are pretty cozy," he says, but his voice is rough, and it gives him away.

She sighs quietly into her coffee and moves into the living room. She cradles her mug to her chest as she sinks carefully into the couch and nestles into the pillows, finds a place to rest her still frozen joints. She closes her eyes for a moment and then smiles. "Mm, that's more like it."

He sits across from her in one of the matching arm chairs, and she tries not to let it bother her—the distance he's putting between them. And then, before she can say anything, he's jumping into it, headfirst like usual. The writer and his words.

"Why are you here?"

She swallows, tries to ignore the blunt tone to his voice. This is about him. _Him. _She repeats the mantra in her head, uses it to push out the hurt.

"You weren't answering."

"I told you I had stuff to do outside of the city, that I would see you later."

"You failed to mention that it was going to be a week-long thing. You left in the middle of a case." She tries for ironic, smirking, but she's afraid she's failing.

"When you needed 'a little bit of time', Kate, it turned into three months. A week seems small in comparison." His voice is low, deep, gutted with emotion he won't let her see. He avoids her eyes.

"I - yes," she murmurs finally, dropping her eyes as well. Already. So quickly they've arrived here.

He isn't angry, his tone isn't insistent. He sounds resigned, accepting, like he knows where this is going and he's just waiting for it to unfold. "I'm just tired, Kate. I'm tired of doing everything I possibly can to make it okay, but getting nothing in return. Not even a hint."

The shock of his dull confession paralyzes her. This is worse, much worse than she'd anticipated. He sounds like he's giving up, like he won't wait. Her heart hammers in her chest, pounding against the coffee cup she's still got pressed against her scar; she might be sick. But before she can find words, make them form around her frozen vocal chords, tongue, lips, he continues.

"You get three months and I can't even have a week. Why are you chasing after me now?"

His eyes are grey, flat. Lifeless. She's seen too many dead bodies, peered into too many sightless eyes; she shudders under that gaze.

She clears her throat. "Because I've never seen you like this."

She can feel things slipping out of her control, so she bites her cheek, swallows hard. She takes a sip of coffee to ease the knot in her throat.

"Because I'm trying to be more, trying to get past my mother's murder and be a real person again. I can see that you're hurting, and I… I want to help."

"I don't believe you."

She sits up straighter, staring at him. "Castle—" She takes a steadying breath, presses the mug tighter against her chest, as if to press the scar flat, make it go away. "You're my partner. I-"

"Beckett, look, I'm not going anywhere; I'm still your partner. Perhaps I'm a glutton for punishment." Then he pushes up off the chair, sets his mug down on the coffee table. "It's late, and I'm sure you're probably tired. We should both get some sleep."

"No, Castle. Wait." When he doesn't stop, she abandons her own coffee next to his, follows quickly after him. She grabs his bicep when he tries to turn away from her. "I did not come all this way just to get coddled and put to bed—" She pokes a finger into his chest, stepping up next to him at the bottom of the stairs.

He glances at her finger, moves away. "I'm well aware that you don't want me to put you to bed."

She's struck by the choked emotion in his voice. He's not angry, no, but he might be falling apart. Her heart squeezes tight in her chest, a fist cutting off her aorta. "Castle—"

"I get it, Beckett. I really do. It's my fault. I'm the one who made you reopen your mother's case. And then your father asked me to stop you, so I tried, but it only made you kick me out. I dragged you out of a hangar to save your life, but Montgomery died instead, and you have every right to blame me. I was too late in the cemetery; I'm just. . .too late."

She gapes at him, blindsided by the guilt in his eyes, the shine of both grief and resignation, giving up. "Castle-"

"I told you I love you," he closes his eyes. "And you told me _some things are better not being remembered_. So believe me, Kate, I _get_ it." He stands in front of her, not looking at her, his chest heaving as if he's run miles. "I get it," he murmurs, and then he turns and walks away, up the stairs, out of view.

She's so completely dumbfounded that she's salted in place, her mouth open in surprise, _horror_, and her eyes burning. She stands there for an eternity, not rememberng how to breathe, finding the heel of her hand pressed against the scar at her chest, sucking in air.

And then she stumbles back, sinks down onto the couch, wraps her arms around the icy, heavy thing in her stomach. She leans all the way forward and presses her forehead to her knees, doing her best to breathe.

Oh God.

What has she done to him?

* * *

><p>When the tears no longer burn at the back of her eyes, when she thinks she can stand without shattering-<p>

She realizes she should go.

She's intruded on the space he's asked for himself. She's being completely hypocritical in coming out here after him, when she herself took three months - just as he said -

She swallows down her pride and looks at the accusation. She took three months to escape, to recover, but she can't say she could have done it differently. Not even with Castle, not knowing what she knew - knows - to be true.

(Maybe a text. Maybe she could have gotten her father to call him, leave him updates? There were other ways. Okay. She can acknowledge that.)

Doesn't change the fact that she needed that time.

But he doesn't heal the way she does. He doesn't work like her; Castle, above all, is a social creature, a man who thrives on people and their stories, people and their messy emotional entanglements. He gives his heart so willingly, and she so sparingly, and yet she has to look at it from his angle.

He needs people to heal. She does not. She should have. . .seen this earlier.

This isn't watching her partner's back, let alone, let alone anything more.

Kate scrubs a hand over her face, angrily shoves the sleeves of the sweatshirt up to her elbows. She's glad he had pajama pants with a drawstring, because at least those stay up, and if she's going to do this - have this out, here and now - she needs to not feel completely ridiculous.

Except she knows that no matter what she's wearing, high-heeled kick-ass boots or not, she'd feel like this.

Hollowed out. Not enough.

(For him.)

For him, she admits, leaning back against the couch and closing her eyes. For him. Not enough of what he needs - openness, honesty, a woman who can laugh. She can't even laugh-

Well, except when he makes her laugh. Does that count? He used to drag it out of her, and now it just comes, unbidden, to her lips. She can't even control the smile anymore and-

Okay, so maybe that counts. And she's working on the honesty and the openness at this very moment, and she wants to be enough - she wants -

She wants _him_.

Kate sits up, mouth suddenly dry. Him. But he's not down here, is he? This is ridiculous, swamped in fear on his couch while he's upstairs, miserable, guilt-ridden, dealing with it alone.

His mother said they needed to heal together. Well, Kate doesn't heal well with others, but she can definitely help him along. Can't she? She can do that. She can. . .be honest with him.

For him.

She takes the steps two at a time, pauses at the top when she realizes that she has no idea where his bedroom is, where he's gone. And she's not going to tap on every door and wait for him to reply, lose the element of surpise (it's all about tactical advantage with her tonight, isn't it?), nor is she going to barge in on every bedroom, opening and closing doors, readying herself for that big moment only not to find him.

"Castle!" she yells, waiting a beat before calling his name again. "Castle."

She hears the door on her left open and turns her head. He's staring at her with something like disbelief, but instead of rebuking her, he sighs instead. "Any room you like. I'll go get sheets."

Kate starts forward, not even bothering to say no, to tell him to stop; she grabs him by the arm and pulls him back. He stumbles, and she remembers that moment on the beach only hours ago, and how good it felt to laugh with him. How easily he makes her laugh.

She can do the rest of it too.

"I'm sorry," she says first, not knowing what else to say. Not knowing what the magic formula is that will make him like her again. He may be in love with her, but he certainly doesn't like her. "I'm sorry that I hurt you, and that I keep hurting you, and all you've done is love me."

He stills under her hand but won't look at her. She wishes she *did* have her heels so that she could make his eyes meet hers, but as it is, nearly four inches off in her flat feet, she only has her body, her closeness, to garner his attention.

So she uses it.

Kate steps in closer, her hand still wrapped around his elbow, lets her fingers feather against the inside of his arm, the soft skin, her thumb stroking the ninety degree angle. It presses the back of her forearm against his chest like this; she feels his ribs expand and collapse with a stunned breath.

"I didn't know how to live with it - no, not you," she says quickly, seeing the flicker in his eyes, hurt or despair. "I can live with you just fine." She moves in a little closer, his arm now brushing her ribs as well, a lick of heat flaring between them. "I didn't know how to live with the bullet, with the case, with being. . .a victim."

"You're not a victim," he gruffs, his head swiveling towards her. Always trying to prove her wrong.

"Mm, well. Either way. I'm. . .damaged. But I didn't want you to have that on your hands, to have to love a damaged-"

He shakes off her light touch but drags her into an embrace, hugging her too tightly, too good, his voice choked at her ear. "Kate. Kate - no, God, no - don't ever think-"

She can do this too. It's not so hard. All it takes is a lift of her toes and the release of her iron self-control, like a privacy gate swinging open, let her chin raise so that her mouth-

He startles when she touches his lips, clutching at her as if for balance. She breathes against his mouth and tries again, finds him, feels the current connect between them, two live wires, electricity sparking under her skin, starting her heart's hard beating.

Castle's lips part, his tongue touches hers, retreats; she chases after. It's never enough, never enough. She wants all of it, him, the flashbacks gone and the forward to remain.

His hands cradle her cheeks when he pulls back, his eyes liquid and curious and vulnerable on hers. She can taste him in her mouth, even so far away. She doesn't understand why he's stopped.

"Can you still?" she murmurs, her chest tight with it, not knowing.

"Still. . .?"

He's going to make her say it. She can do this too. "Love me. Can you still love me even when I'm-"

"I'll always love you, Kate," he says, reverent and awed and coming back to press his mouth to hers in little, light kisses, beseeching, dissolving now along her jaw. She breathes in a ragged sigh and can't figure out how this got to be turned around again, how it got to be about her, when she meant to help him-

"I don't know if you even want this, or if you should, not when you see now how it's going to be for you," she murmurs, pulling back so that he'll stop a moment, he'll see her. "It's not enough, it's not at all enough, or even close, and I want it to be, but it's not fair to make you wait when we're both-"

"Miserable." His voice is rough with it, the grief leaking out of him.

She nods, feels it breaking in her, like ice cracking apart. Her voice does the same. "Miserable with each other."

"Even if I'm miserable with you, Kate, I'm more miserable without." His lips find her cheek, her ear; she tries to remember what she meant to say, what else she needed to be honest about.

Oh.

"Castle."

His mouth on hers, the heady movement of his tongue, the sudden exploration of his fingers at her waist, thumbs stroking her hipbones.

"You don't need to find clean sheets," she whispers, sucking in a breath at his touch. just below her belly button.

"What?"

"I'm not sleeping in a guest room."

"It's too late to head back-"

"Castle," she says gently, detaching herself from his grip so she can look at him, let him see her eyes, the amusement on her face. Tenderness in there too, she supposes, because he's handsy as hell, and yet he doesn't seem to think it will go anywhere - and that's sweet, and beautiful, and so not accurate. "Castle, I'm not sleeping in a guest room because I'm sleeping with you."

His mouth drops open; she leans in against his chest to kiss it closed, but he falls back, off-balance, his shoulders striking the wall behind him, his arms startling up around her, holding her there. As if to protect her. Like that day in the winter sunlight, only this time he's the one against the wall.

She smirks, bites her lower lip when he continues to just stare at her.

"Didn't you know?" she laughs, the whole glacier in her chest breaking up, drifting away, melting at the force of his eyes on her. Ravishing. Undressing. Worshipping.

"Know?" he croaks, and actually blushes, two red stains low in his cheeks. He clears his throat, shakes his head slightly. "Know that you. . .you. . ."

"That I'm not letting it stop me. That I'm tired of being without you, when you're the only thing I want, when it makes me miserable to hold back, miserable to see you holding back as well." She rubs her thumb over his slack lower lip, lifts her eyes to his. "You've got a head start on me, but I'm in this."

His hand comes up to cup her cheek, fingers around her ear, absolute amazement in his features as his thumb traces the bones of her face.

Any man who looks at her like this, any man who takes the pittance she can give and treasures it like something of infinite worth. . .

deserves more.

Everything she can give, because he'll cherish it, treasure it.

She can be more in his hands.

Kate balances on his chest to press her mouth to the puffiness under his eye (sleepless because of her), to the eyelid that flickers shut over the red-rimmed pupil (because of her), to the deep groove at the side of his mouth (frowning because of her). She wants her touch to transform him.

His hands slide up her back, he murmurs something against her skin that she doesn't hear. It sounds like confessions, cemetery confessions, but that's okay. It's good. He needs to say it and she needs to hear it.

She needs him to know the truth.

A last kiss on his seeking mouth, breathing there, and then she drops back down to her bare feet, slides her palms down his chest. "Rick."

He swallows, and she knows it's because using his first name has become a signal of the serious and often difficult conversations.

"If you give me some time. . ."

He frowns at her, questioning; she trails a hand down to his, laces their fingers together.

"If you give me some time, I could be in love with you." She closes her eyes, sucks in a breath. Be honest. "I am in love with you."

His fingers contract around hers, making her open her eyes; his chest lifts and falls on a deep release, breath and burdens both. One of his arms hooks around her shoulders and pulls her against him, warm and tight.

"That's all I need," he murmurs, his breath catching, tangling his words against her ear. "All I ever need. Hope."

She sighs and presses a kiss to his still-murmuring mouth. "It's a lot more certain than hope, Castle."

His arm tightens.

"It's a sure thing. We're a sure thing."

"Kate," he starts, his voice breaking, and she hates to hear it like that. Not now. No more of that.

She lifts her mouth to his jaw, grazes the bone before hovering at his ear.

"Why don't you show me how high the thread count is on your sheets?"


End file.
